Valley of the Dead (15 page)

Chapter
26

Clearly to manifest these novel things,

I say that we arrived upon a plain,

Which from its bed rejecteth every plant.

Dante,
Inferno
, 14.7-9

By the time they left the fatal clearing it was nearly too dark to continue, but still they went on. After a while, the clinging smell of the burning bodies was replaced by the smothering scent of the dry, dead forest. The trail turned to the right, and Dante and his companions emerged from under the trees, marching out into a plain that spread out before them. It was too dark to see the plain’s full extent, but as far as Dante could see in the twilight, everything was blank, grey, and flat for some distance, except for the black shape of the forest now behind them.

The horses’ footfalls had become completely silent, and Dante looked down to see the animals’ hooves were churning through a layer of the finest ash he’d ever seen. The ash was so fine, its color such a sickly grey, it looked like flour that had been ground from some mixture of blasted, diseased plants. The dust’s fine texture meant that, in just a few steps, their horses’ hooves had sent huge clouds of it swirling up, engulfing them in a burning, stinging fog. Although the air around them had already turned cool in the night, the ash seemed unnaturally warm to Dante, as if it had just been swept from the bottom of an oven or kiln. The fog quickly became so thick Dante could barely see the rump of the horse ahead of him, and Bogdana’s back was completely lost to sight.

“We can’t go on now!” Adam shouted from the rear. “Come back, you three!”

Dante waited till he could see Bogdana had turned her horse, then he pulled his around and started to retreat to the edge of the forest. They stopped there, coughing and brushing themselves off as they dismounted.

“We’ll stay here. Right at the edge of the forest,” Adam said. “The plain will be hard enough to cross with daylight, but in the dark it would be impossible. We could start to go in circles and get completely lost. Once we can see the sun in the morning, we can head more or less west and cross the plain quickly. It’s not that wide, east to west. Let us make camp here, quickly. Stay close. We’ll build a fire. Nights are very cold here.”

Everyone hustled about with the preparations, gathering firewood and breaking out the provisions from the saddles. No one was ever more than a few steps away from one of the others, however. Once they were seated around the fire, things seemed safer, though Dante would not say he felt normal or relaxed, just slightly less threatened and sick at everything around him.

Everything was silent, except for the crackle of the fire. Dante knew this was good--they could hear any intruders as they approached--but it still filled him with the kind of foreboding he’d felt constantly for two days, a seething dread at a world that was unnatural and monstrous in every way, and yet always made a terrible, predictable kind of sense, no matter what horror he saw next. He chewed their modest rations – dried fruit and meat, nuts, and some bread – and passed the water bottle to Bogdana, who sat leaning against him, for it had suddenly gotten quite cold. Dante knew her solid, reliable body was the only thing that kept him from shaking in fear, just as he knew her need for him was the only thing keeping him from weeping in despair. If a man had love and a purpose, he lacked nothing necessary. These things were stronger than the flesh, stronger than its pains or pleasures. Dante still had doubts as to whether or not the weak flesh would be strong enough for him to survive another day in this hell.

“I’ve never been this far up the valley,” Radovan said as they ate. “I did not know this desert plain was here. How did it get like this?”

“Centuries ago, a huge fire swept through the forest,” Adam explained. “It is said it burned for months, leaving this huge scar across the valley where nothing ever grew again. It almost seemed like a barrier, to keep people from going further up the valley. But eventually they returned and forged ahead, up to the higher, rougher plateaus we will see tomorrow. There is even less life up there, but only stones and torments, and the people who thrive on such pain and strife.”

“Why then do they go up there?” Bogdana asked.

Adam shook his head. “As I say, they thrive on it, and every creature in the world goes to where it can survive, where it can live the life it was meant to. In a peaceful, well-watered valley there are gentle creatures and beautiful flowers. Under a rock there are worms and venomous things that cannot abide the light of day. It is no different with men. They say they go further up the valley to mine the jewels that are hidden in the mountains there, but I think that is a lie they tell to themselves and to others, to make themselves seem less incomprehensible. I think they go there to get away from other people, and their laws, because that is how they want to live. Tomorrow you must see what that kind of life is like. I am sorry, but it is the only way for you to survive.”

They were all silent for a moment, then Adam spoke again. “And what did you know of the valley before the other day, my son?” he asked Radovan.

“Not much at all,” the younger man said. “I knew there was valuable timber and mining here, and that’s why people kept coming back, even though it was terribly dangerous, what with the undead plague constantly breaking out every couple of generations. People want what is here so much they are willing to risk their lives for it.”

“Where were you from?” Bogdana asked.

“Not from any of the towns near here. My family lived in the city. My father was a tailor. He taught my older brother to take up the business. He taught me enough to help out when I was a boy, but we knew the business was only big enough to be passed on to my brother. I thought to join a monastery. I liked the discipline, and working hard at something, on your own. It seemed noble, I suppose. But I didn’t have the head for it. I could read a bit, but I didn’t like all the praying and singing. I had heard of the army, and how it would always be necessary to keep a large, well-paid one in our country, with the threat from this valley always looming. All the boys in the city are told how brave and just our leader, Lord Mihail, is, and they all want to grow up to be soldiers and knights like him. I remember seeing him in parades in our city, and he looked so chivalrous, so noble and strong as he rode by, with his armor, sword, and lance. Even if I could never rule our country, I thought I could be as good and righteous as he, killing monsters and saving people from them, like he did. I suppose it was childish, but I believed it and it gave me something to work for.”

He fell silent for a moment before continuing. “So I joined the army, and for a few years, it was an easy life. They fed and paid us a lot, for what little we did, most of the time. But then this plague came. I always thought I was hard, fearless. And I was, for the fighting. So long as the dead were attacking, I could kill them as well and as easily as any man could. But more and more I saw ones that were wounded, unable to stand up or fight. Or they were children. Or we were attacking villages where some people were still alive. I didn’t ask to be an executioner, and I wasn’t ready for it. The commanders would tell you all the people were going to die anyway, and this was more merciful. It had to be done, but you just can’t make yourself do that. Either it comes naturally, or you have to stop doing it before you go mad. I suppose some can just not think about it.” He paused for a breath.

“The first night, after killing many people, living and dead, we drank a lot. I think for some of the men, that was enough. It dulled their memories and their consciences to the point where they could do it again. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about the people we’d killed, their faces, their eyes, all the blood and tears and snot running down their faces, as they’re hit over and over. People shouldn’t be so weak and easy to kill. If they were harder to kill, then you could just do it. But they die so easily, they make it impossible for you.” He looked up. “It’s funny, I didn’t have the head to be a monk, but I thought too much to be a soldier in this wretched war against the monsters. I’m just not cut out for anything in this world.” He dropped his gaze, brooding.

“You fought for that woman,” Dante said. “You tried to help her.”

“Yes, I tried.” He spat out the words. “And I failed. The only good thing that happened there was that useless dictator being annihilated, and that wasn’t my doing. I could’ve taken credit for that, if I had still been in the army, loading the trebuchet that crushed him. Instead all I did was watch more people die and kill each other senselessly. That’s all I can do is watch more bad things happen.”

“You came with us and helped us,” Bogdana said. “I don’t know how far we could’ve made it without you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I just hope it results in something. I hope I don’t fail you, too.”

“Everyone fails, many times,” Adam said. “Whether you have the strength to carry on is the measure of your bravery. We all know that you do, my son. You needn’t judge yourself the way you do. You stopped doing evil and started doing good. What more would you demand of yourself? Success? That is a matter of fortune, not virtue.”

Adam turned to Bogdana. “And you, my daughter? You lived close to the valley before? You knew something of its threat?”

“Yes. I’ve lived near the valley my whole life,” she began. “I had heard of the plague since I was little. We knew to be careful. My parents had lived through a plague, and they always told us to be careful. But it makes us too wary sometimes. You see someone hurt and you stay away at first, afraid that they’re one of the dead. Someone staggers and falls, maybe they’ve had too much to drink and they throw up on themselves, and someone bashes their head in, thinking to save the village. But all he’s done is kill his neighbor and made some woman a widow. People shouldn’t live like that.”

She sighed before she resumed. “It’s what I loved so much about my husband. We’d grown up together, though he was a couple years older, and he’d always been so gentle and trusting.” She tilted her chin up, to indicate Radovan. “He was big, like you. A huge, strong man.” She held her hands out, turning them over a couple times to show her palms, then the backs of her hands. “And his hands! I never could believe how big they were when he’d grab me – always playfully, never rough. He could pick me up so easily, or toss our boy so high up in the air. I could never think of him hurting someone, just to try to protect himself or possibly avoid the plague. He’d have to be sure there was no other way before he could do harm to anyone. He was perfect. And our life was hard, but it was good.”

She looked down. She was sitting right next to Dante, leaning against him so he couldn’t see her face. He could smell her -- a living thing of sweat and blood and breath. He could also hear in her description how happy she’d been, and he wished, more than anything else, she was still happy like that, even if it meant she would never meet or know him. Perhaps he would’ve watched her from the road, playing with her son or kissing her husband, and he would’ve smiled with joy to see such a happy and pretty peasant girl, and that would’ve been a better existence for both of them. But that was not the life they now had, and he knew he must be glad of this one, too, as bitter as it was.

“And, like you, that all changed with the plague,” Bogdana continued. “My husband came crashing through the door of our little cottage, holding our son. They had seen an injured man in the fields, and of course my husband had gone to help him. He probably didn’t see the bites at first, and even if he had, you know there are wolves and bears in the woods. He would’ve thought the man had been attacked by one of those and needed help. I know he would’ve thought that before he’d think he should run away and ignore someone in pain, someone who might need his help. But the man was already dead. My husband could overpower him easily, but you know how they are if they take you by surprise, and you don’t get them first with a weapon. He bit my husband terribly on his arms and neck, and our little boy tried to jump in to help his father. He wouldn’t have known not to do that. Perhaps it was my fault. I didn’t always remind him of the danger, the way my mother always harped on it with me when I was little. She’d hit me with her hand if I ever went near a child or other person I didn’t know, or if I went to the door to answer it, or if I was ever out of her sight in the woods. But maybe she was right.” She had to stop, and her small body shook with silent sobs.

“You needn’t say more,” Dante told her. “We know. There’s no need to say the rest.”

She inhaled and drew herself up, sniffling in all the mucus her weeping had loosened up. “No, it’s all right. It’s good to talk about them. It’s good to tell people of goodness and innocence and bravery, when all they see is wickedness and hate and pain. It’s good to remind them that, just three days ago, people still helped each other, rather than tearing each other apart like beasts. So, my husband and son were both bitten, before my husband could tear the man off of them and beat him to death. My husband, as big and strong as he was, was weaker from more bites. He probably wouldn’t last the night. He was panting and wheezing from carrying our son all the way from the fields, and normally it wouldn’t have winded him at all to do that. Our son was still small, only four. My little boy wasn’t as bad off, just one small bite on his arm. He didn’t even cry. But it would be the same in a day or two – a terrible death, then back up and trying to kill me. Either one of them get me would or I’d have to kill them. I didn’t know what to do for them.

“But my husband, he’d thought of it already, even as he dragged himself back to our home to die. He’d thought what would be best for me, what would cause me the least pain. He wanted to spare me as much as possible, keep me from seeing them suffer. He told me to take a basket of food and go to our neighbor’s barn and hide in the loft there. I asked what he was going to do, and he said he’d take care of it, to just trust him. I kissed my son on the forehead. There was too much blood on my husband for me to kiss him, but I wept for him, and he knew how I felt. I thanked him for taking care of it, because I knew I couldn’t do it, and I promised to make sure our baby would survive. I stood outside and he locked the door after me. There was no one around, so I thought I should stay there, in case he changed his mind or needed me for something. I waited, and the roof started to smoke, then the door. I never heard anything from inside the house, even as the flames engulfed the whole building. Even if he had … taken care of our son before he started the fire, my husband must’ve still been alive through all that, and he never cried out, or tried to escape. He took all that responsibility, all that suffering, on himself, rather than cause me pain or guilt.”